I don’t want this, I don’t want to be here. The current here is the back seat of a burner car, in this case a shitty black Ford. My brother, Luke, is beside me, staring at his phone, smiling. His mind is clearly elsewhere.
My father is driving, and beside him is my uncle Tony.
Outside, the Atlantic coastline streaks by, in all its neon glory. Golden lights, glittering buildings, million-dollar sports cars. It’s like Florida forgot it’s a swamp for a second. Hordes of well-dressed people are out partying, but we speed past them.
I cross my arms. Everyone else in the car wants this life. They want power and glory, to drive fast cars and wear expensive suits and hook up with pretty girls.
They want to kill, too. For power. For family.
Or maybe they don’t want to. But they’re at least okay with it.
I’m not interested. In any of it.
Outside the window on Luke’s side, the ocean stretches out, reflecting the Technicolor city lights, the neon blazing against the dark sky. This town truly is designed to be seen past sunset. During the day, it looks gaudy, like a bad theme park. At night, though, it turns into something kind of magical. It’s a playground for adults, where you can get pretty much anything you want … as long as you’re hot or rich enough.
We stop at a red light. A group of guys in tank tops and designer jeans crosses the street. We’re in Donovan territory now, so those boys belong to them, even if they don’t know it.
“It’s time,” says Dad, looking up at us through the rearview mirror. “Masks on.”
Shit.
I didn’t bring a mask.
Luke remembered his—of course he did—and pulls it on. It’s a black ski mask, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. Dad and Tony put theirs on, too. I can’t help but think this is them in their natural state of being. Miller criminals. One of two plagues on the city. There’s us, and the Donovans, and we’re both as bad as each other.
At least that’s what the cops say.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“What?”
“There’s a small chance I forgot my mask.”
His silence is intense alongside the classical music he plays in the car. Beethoven, maybe? I don’t know, and I don’t know why he does it. Maybe he wants to add a little class to our grim task. Like classical music somehow makes us sophisticated, better than other criminals.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks. I don’t even need to look at him to know how disappointed he must be. I’m already such a failure in so many ways. I’m no Luke, for starters. On top of that I’m too soft, too careless, too lacking in family devotion …
He has no idea I left my mask on purpose.
I’m a good actor. I can sell it.
He has no idea who I really am.
“You what?”
“Are you sure it’s not in your bag?” asks Luke. “Come on, we’ve been planning this for weeks.”
I make a show of going through my backpack. I see books, a school sweater, and my tablet. But no mask.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not here. I must’ve left it at home or something.”
“I told you,” says Tony. “He’s not ready.”
“He is,” says Dad. “He’s just distracted. Probably chasing some girl. That’s it, right, champ?”
I shrug.
“See?” says Dad. “Don’t get me started on the dumb shit you did when you were seventeen. Donna was the only thing you ever thought about.”
Tony chuckles. “She sure was.”
Dad looks at me through the rearview mirror. His murderous expression tells me everything I need to know. I get it. I’ve let him down, yet again. He lightened the mood to save face in front of Tony, but I’m nowhere near off the hook. I swear I’ve tried to be good at this stuff. I’m just not as in this as they are. The Millers hate the Donovans with everything they have.
Me?
I’d never admit this to the others, but I’ve never really hated them. I know I should, because of what they did to my family.
We used to be the closest of allies. The Millers controlled our territory unopposed since the twenties, making millions off the illegal alcohol trade. And right by our side were the Donovans. Things were good, fortunes were made, and little blood was spilled. But then the fifties came around, and the patriarch of the Donovan family wanted to get involved in narcotics. Our patriarch, my great-great-grandfather, said no, not